Men In Blue boh-1

by W. E. B Griffin

  "I was about to say I know how you feel," Peter said. "But of course, I don't. I can't. All I can say is that we'll do everything humanly possible to find whoever took your son's life."

  "If I ask a straight question, will I get a straight answer?"

  "I'll try, sir."

  "How do you cops handle it psychologically when you do catch somebody youknow is guilty of doing something horrible, obscene, unhuman like this, only to see him walk out of a courtroom a free man because of some minor point of law, or some bleeding heart on the bench?"

  "The whole thing is a system, sir," Peter said, after a moment. "The police, catching the doer, the perpetrator, are only part of the system. We do the best we can. It's not our fault when another part of the system fails to do what it should."

  "I have every confidence that you.'11 find whoever it was who hacked my son to death," Nelson said. "And then we both know what will happen. It will, after a long while, get into a courtroom, where some asshole of a lawyer will try every trick in the business to get him off. And if he doesn't, if the jury finds him guilty, and the judge has the balls to sentence him to the electric chair, he'll appeal, for ten years or so, and the odds are some yellow-livered sonofabitch of a governor will commute his sentence to life. I'm sure you know what it costs to keep a man in jail. About twice what it costs to send a kid to an Ivy League college. The taxpayers will provide this animal with three meals a day, and a warm place to sleep for the rest of his life."

  Wohl didn't reply. Nelson drained his drink and walked to the bar to make another, then returned.

  "Have you ever been involved in the arrest of someone who did something really terrible, something like what happened to my son?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "And were you tempted to put a.38 between his eyes right then and there, to save the taxpayers the cost of a trial, and/or lifelong imprisonment?"

  "No, sir."

  "Why not?"

  "Straight answer?" Peter asked. Nelson nodded. "I could say because you realize that you would lower yourself to his level," Peter said, " but the truth is that you don't do it because it would cost you. They investigate all shootings, and-"

  "Vigilante justice," Nelson interrupted, raising his glass. "Right now, it seems like a splendid idea to me."

  He is not suggesting that I go out and shoot whoever killed his son. He is in shock, as well as grief, and as a newspaperman, he knows the way the system works, and now that he!$ going to be involved with the system himself, doesn't like it at all.

  "It gets out of hand almost immediately," Peter said.

  "Yes, of course," Nelson said. "Please excuse me, Inspector, for subjecting you to this. I probably should not have come to work, in my mental condition. But the alternative was sitting at home, looking out the window…"

  "I understand perfectly, sir," Peter said.

  "Have there been any developments?" Nelson asked.

  "I came here directly from Stockton Place," Peter said, "where I spoke to the detective to whom the case has been assigned-"

  "I thought it had been assigned to you," Nelson interrupted.

  "No, sir," Peter said. "Detective Harris of the Homicide Division has been assigned to the case."

  "Then what's your role in this? Ted Czernick led me to believe that you would be in charge."

  "Commissioner Czernick has asked me to keep him advised, to keep you advised, and to make sure that Detective Harris has all the assistance he asks for," Wohl said.

  "I was pleased," Nelson interrupted again. "I checked you out. You're in Internal Security, that sounds important whatever it means, and you're the man who caught the Honorable Mr. Housing Director Weaver and that Friend of Labor, J. Francis Donleavy, with both of their hands in the municipal cookie jar. And now you're telling me you're not on the case…"

  "Sir, what it means is that Commissioner Czernick assigned the best availableHomicide detective to the case. That's a special skill, sir. Harris is better equipped than I am to conduct the investigation-"

  "That's why he's a detective, right, and you're an inspector?"

  "And then the commissioner called me in and told me to drop whatever else I was doing, so that I could keep both you and him advised of developments, and so that I could provide Detective Harris with whatever help he needs," Wohl plunged on doggedly.

  Arthur J. Nelson looked at Wohl suspiciously for a moment.

  "I had the other idea," he said, finally. "All right, so what has Mr. Harris come up with so far?"

  "Harris believes that a number of valuables have been stolen from the apartment, Mr. Nelson."

  "He figured that out himself, did he?" Nelson said, angrily sarcastic. "What other reason could there possibly be than a robbery? My son came home and found his apartment being burglarized, and the burglar killed him. All I can say is that, thank God, his girl friend wasn't with him. Or she would be dead, too."

  Girlfriend? Jesus!

  "Detective Harris, who will want to talk to you himself, Mr. Nelson, asked me if you could come up with a list of valuables, jewelry, that sort of thing, that were in the apartment."

  "I'll have my secretary get in touch with the insurance company," Nelson said. "There must be an inventory around someplace."

  "Your son's car, one of them, the Jaguar, is missing from the garage."

  "Well, by now, it's either on a boat to Mexico, or gone through a dismantler's," Nelson snapped. "All you're going to find is the license plate, if you find that."

  "Sometimes we get lucky," Peter said. "We're looking for it, of course, here and all up and down the Eastern Seaboard."

  "I suppose you've asked his girl friend? It's unlikely, but possible that she might have it. Or for that matter, that it might be in the dealer's garage."

  "You mentioned his girl friend a moment ago, Mr. Nelson," Wohl said, carefully, suspecting he was on thin ice. "Can you give me her name?"

  "Dutton, Louise Dutton," Nelson said. "Youare aware that she found Jerry? That she went into his bedroom, and found him like that?"

  "I wasn't aware of a relationship between them, Mr. Nelson," Peter said. "But I do know that Miss Dutton does not have Mr. Nelson's car."

  "Miss Dutton is a prominent television personality," Nelson said. "It would not be good for her public image were it to become widely know that she and her gentleman friend lived in the same apartment building. I would have thought, however, that you would have been able to put two and two together."

  Jesus Christ! Does he expect me to believe that? Does he believe it himself?

  He looked at Nelson's face, and then understood: He knows what his son was, and he probably knows that I know. I have just been given the official cover story. Arthur J. Nelson wants the fact that his son was homosexual swept under the rug. For his own ego, or maybe, even more likely, because there's a mother around. What the hell, my father would do the same thing.

  "Insofar as theLedger is concerned," Nelson said, meeting Wohl's eyes, "every effort will be made to spare Miss Dutton any embarrassment. I can only hope my competition will be as understanding."

  He obviously feels he can get to Louise, somehow, and get her to stand still for being identified as Jerome's girl friend. Well, why not? "Scratch my back and I'll scratch yours" works at all echelons.

  "I understand, sir," Peter said.

  "Thank you for coming to see me, Inspector," Arthur J. Nelson said, putting out his hand. "When I see Ted Czernick, I will tell him how much I appreciate your courtesy and understanding."

  The translation of which is "Do what you 're told, or I'll lower the boom on you."

  ****

  Peter Wohl called Detective Tony Harris from a pay phone in the lobby of the Ledger Building and told him that Arthur J. Nelson's secretary was going to come up with a list of jewelry and other valuables that probably had been in the apartment, and that it would probably be ready by the time Harris could come to the Ledger Building.

  And then he told Harris what Nelson had said abou
t Louise Dutton being Jerome Nelson's girl friend, and warned him not to get into Jerome's sexual preference if there was any way it could be avoided. Somewhat surprising Wohl, Harris didn't seem surprised.

  "Thanks for the warning," he said. "I can handle that."

  "He also suggested that by now the Jaguar has been stripped," Wohl said.

  "Could well be. They haven't found it yet, and Jaguars are pretty easy to spot; there aren't that many of them. Either stripped, or on a dock in New York or Baltimore waiting to get loaded on a boat for South America. I think we should keep looking."

  Wohl did not mention to Harris Nelson's toast to vigilante justice, or his remark about what he really wanted to hear was that the doer had been killed resisting arrest. It was, more than likely, just talk.

  When he hung up, he considered, and decided against, reporting to Commissioner Czernick about his meeting with Nelson. He really didn't have anything important to say.

  Instead, he found the number in the phone book, dropped a dime in the slot, and called WCBL-TV.

  He had nearly as much trouble getting Louise on the line as he had getting in to see Arthur J. Nelson, but finally her voice came over the line.

  "Dutton."

  Peter could hear voices and sounds in the background. Wherever she was, it wasn't a private office.

  "Hi," Peter said.

  "Hi," she breathed happily. "I hoped you would call!"

  "You all right?"

  "Ginger-peachy, now," she said. "What are you doing?"

  "I just left Arthur J. Nelson," he said.

  "Rough?"

  "He told me you were Jerome's girl friend," Peter said.

  "Oh, the poor man!" she said. "You didn't say anything?"

  "No."

  "So?"

  "So?" he parroted.

  "So why did you call?"

  "I dunno," he said.

  "What are you going to do now?" she asked.

  "I've got to go by my office, and then figure out some way to get my car from where it's parked in front of your house," he said.

  "I forgot about that," she said. "Why don't you pick me up here after I do the news at six? I could drive it to your place, or wherever."

  "Where would I meet you?"

  "Come on in," Louise said. "I'll tell them at reception."

  "Okay," he said. "Thank you."

  "Don't be silly," she said, and then added, "Peter, don't forget to pick up your uniform at the cleaners."

  "Okay," he said, and chuckled, and the line went dead.

  He realized, as he hung the telephone up, that he was smiling. More than that, he was very happy. There was something very touching, very intimate, in her concern that he not forget to pick up his uniform. Then he thought that if he had called Barbara Crowley and she had reminded him of it, he would have been annoyed.

  Is this what being in love is like?

  He went out of his way to get the uniform before he drove downtown, so that he really would not forget it.

  He had not been at his desk in his office three minutes when Chief Inspector Dennis V. Coughlin slipped into the chair beside it.

  "Jeannie was asking where you were last night, Peter," Coughlin said. "At the house."

  "I wasn't up to it," Peter said. "And you know what happened later."

  "You feel up to being a pallbearer?" Coughlin asked, evenly.

  "If Jeannie wants me to, sure," Peter said.

  "That's what I told her," Coughlin said. "Be at Marshutz amp; Sons about half past nine. The funeral's at eleven."

  "I'll be there," Peter said. "Chief, my dad suggested I wear my uniform."

  Chief Inspector Coughlin thought that over a moment.

  "What did you decide about it?"

  "Until I heard about being a pallbearer, I was going to wear it."

  "I think it would nice, Peter, if we carried Dutch to his rest in uniform," Chief Inspector Coughlin said. "I'll call the wife and make sure mine's pressed."

  ****

  Officer Anthony F. Caragiola, who was headed for the job on the fourto-midnight watch, glanced at his wrist-watch, and walked into Gene amp; Jerry's Restaurant amp; Sandwiches across the street from the Bridge Street Terminal. There would be time for a cup of coffee and a sweet roll before he climbed the stairs to catch the elevated and go to work.

  Officer Caragiola, who wore the white cap of the Traffic Division, had been a policeman for eleven years, and was now thirty-four years old. He was a large and swarthy man, whose skin showed the ravages of being outside day after day in heat and cold, rain and shine.

  He eased his bulk onto one of the round stools at the counter, waved his fingers in greeting at the waitress, a stout, blond woman, and helped himself to a sweet roll from the glass case. He had lived three blocks away, now with his wife and four kids, for most of his life. When there was a problem at Gene amp; Jerry's, if one of the waitresses took sick, or one of the cooks, and his wife, Maria, could get somebody to watch the kids, she came and filled in.

  The waitress put a china mug of coffee and three half-and-half containers in front of him.

  "So how's it going?"

  "Can't complain," Officer Caragiola said. "Yourself?"

  She shrugged and smiled and walked away. Tony Caragiola carefully opened the three tubs of half-and-half and carefully poured them into his coffee, and then stirred it.

  He heard a hissing noise, and looked at the black swinging doors leading to the kitchen. Gene was standing there, wiggling her fingers at him. Gene was Eugenia Santalvaria, a stout, black-haired woman in her fifties who had six months before buried her husband, Gerimino, after thirty-three years of marriage.

  Caragiola slipped off the stool and, carrying his coffee with him, stepped behind the counter and walked to the doors to the kitchen.

  "Tony, maybe it's something, maybe it ain't," Gene Santalvaria said, in English, and then switched to Italian. There were two bums outside, a big fat slob and a little guy that looked like a spic, she told him. They had been there for hours, sitting in an old Volkswagen. Maybe they were going to stick up the check-cashing place down the block, or maybe they were selling dope or something; every once in a while, one of them got out of the car and went up the stairs to the elevated, and then a couple of minutes later came back down the stairs and got back in the car. She didn't want to call the district, 'cause maybe it wasn't nothing, but since he had come in, she thought it was better she tell him.

  "I'll have a look," Officer Caragiola said.

  He left the kitchen and walked to the front of the restaurant and, sipping on his coffee, looked for a Volkswagen. There was two guys in it, one of them, a big fat slob with one of them hippie bands around his forehead, behind the wheel, slumped down in the seat as if he was asleep. And then the passenger door opened, and a little guy-she was right, he looked like a spic-got out and looked for traffic, and then walked across the street to the stairs to the elevated. Looked like a mean little fucker.

  Officer Caragiola set his coffee on the counter and walked quickly out of Gene amp; Jerry's, and across the street, and up the stairs after him.

  He got to the platform just as a train arrived. Everybody on the platform got on it but the little spic. He acted as if he was waiting for somebody who might have ridden the elevated to the end of the line and just stayed on. If he did that, he would just go back downtown. If somebody like that was either buying or selling dope, that would be the way to do it.

  Officer Caragiola ducked behind a stairwell so the little spic couldn't see him, and waited. People started coming up the stairs, filling up the platform, and then a train arrived from downtown and left, and then five minutes later reappeared on the downtown track. Everybody on the platform got on the train but the little spic.

  Tony Caragiola came out from behind the stairwell and walked over to the little spic.

  "Speak to you a minute, buddy?" he said.

  "What about?"

  Tony saw that the little spic was pissed. He probabl
y knew all the civil rights laws about cops not being supposed to ask questions without reasonable cause.

  "You want to tell me what you and your friend in the Volkswagen are doing?"

  "Narcotics," the little spic said. "I'd rather not show you my I.D. Not here."

  "Who's your lieutenant?" Tony asked.

  "Lieutenant Pekach."

  It was a name Officer Caragiola did not recognize.

  "I think you better show me your ID," he said.

  "Shit," the little spic said. He reached in his back pocket and came out with a plastic identity card. "Okay?" he said.

  "The lady in the restaurant said you were acting suspicious," Tony Caragiola said.

  "Yeah, I'll bet."

  Officer Jesus Martinez put his ID back in his pocket and walked down the stairs. Officer Anthony Caragiola walked twenty feet behind him. He went back in Gene amp; Jerry's and told Gene everything was all right, not to worry about it. Then he went back across the street and climbed the stairs to catch the elevated to go to work.

  Officer Martinez got back into the Volkswagen. He glowered for a full minute at Officer Charley McFadden, who was asleep and snoring. Then he jabbed him, hard, with his fingers, in his ribs. McFadden sat up, a look of confusion on his face.

  "What's up?"

  "I thought you would like to know, asshole, that the lady in the restaurant called the cops on us. Said we look suspicious."

  ****

  At quarter to five, Peter Wohl drove to Marshutz amp; Sons. As he walked up the wide steps to the Victorian-style building, the Moffitts-Jean, the kids, and Dutch's mother-came out.

  Jean Moffitt was wearing a black dress and a hat with a veil. The kids were in suits. Gertrude Moffitt was in a black dress and hat, but no veil.

  "Hello, Peter," Jean Moffitt said, and offered a gloved hand.

  "Jeannie," Peter said.

  "You know Mother Moffitt, don't you?"

  "Yes, of course," Peter said. "Good afternoon, Mrs. Moffitt."

  "We're going out for a bite to eat," Gertrude Moffitt said. "Before people start coming after work."